Ah, the Ides of March. A day filled with trepidation, if you go in for that sort of thing. It has been kind of a funky one, here, but, once again, poetry saves me! And the milkman, of course. Gotta love the milkman.
If you are enjoying the Mary series, why not stop by and thank Tupelo Press with a teeny, tiny donation? It’s all their doing, you know, this deluge of all poems Mary!
The True Story of Mary and the Spilled Milk
It always begins in half-light,
silent houses curled on their sides,
grass poised to resume its steady thrust.
This is the soft hour she likes best,
before morning pours its cereal
and soles pick up where they left off.
In these see-through moments,
she walks the neighborhood,
making love to what goes on
just past the coupling shutters.
When you are a mother you see
what the other women do not:
rough hands cupping hips,
full lips falling like rain.
You hear babies slip
through open crib rails,
hear men sigh
in something like sleep.
Oh, Queen of the Gaze.
Oh, Lady of Streetlamp Eyes.
You are not here to help them,
only to look in their empty windows,
practice their intimate gestures.
Tomorrow you may wish them well.